I float on Dal Lake
Suspended
between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers
water lilies, Kashmiri bread
and the Muslim prayers
that penetrate the hardness of war
chanting Allah Bismallah
Floating Islam
Holy words drenching the air
Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers
Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle
9 years of war
1,000 houseboats lie empty
in the Himalayan fog
Intricately carved furniture
Thick with dust
and the powder of blood and bullets

Time passes slowly
like smoke on a lizard's tail
trailing in the thick rancid air
of burning meat and maple leaves
Like a shikara
moving over the glass of Kashmir
The sound of a dozen Bangees
floating over the water
Hollow, solemn and mournful
Echoing against the hardness
of the surrounding mountains
The circle of Himalayas
Like a womb
around the prayers of Pachin

Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers
Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore
Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque
They want to go home to their wives, to their children
They want to leave the place of prayer which is not theirs
The place of prayer which has seen death
The place where God was pushed out
In order to not see the killing
To kill what they don't see
The place which was no longer a refuge

Outside

Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils
cooking in a dented metal pot
In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice
and throw scraps into the silver water
where it washes up
onto the dirty boots of a soldier
I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle
as it touches the ground